Between the Idea and the Reality
by spaceburgers
Summary: Inception AU. Alfred, a graduate student studying architecture in London, receives a job offer from one rather suspicious-looking Arthur Kirkland. What he doesn't realise is that none of his years in university could have ever prepared him for the challenge that awaits him with this one simple job. Eventual USUK.
1. The Job

When Alfred dreams, he dreams of the impossible.

Six years old: Flying, floating high above his small hometown, high over the clouds, and when he wakes up he swears can still feel the wind whipping at his hair.

Ten years old: He is Superman, the ultimate hero, defeating bad guys and loved and respected by civilians everywhere.

Fourteen years old: He walks right through his TV screen and into the bustling streets of Tokyo, Paris, New York City.

Eighteen years old: Buildings of every shape and size, rising from the ground at his will.

Twenty-three years old, and Alfred dreams of_ more._

There is a certain sense of wanderlust in his veins, pulsing just beneath the surface of his skin, and his bones constantly ache for the next great adventure, for someplace far away from—from wherever he is now, essentially. As a child, being trapped in a small town in the middle of nowhere, he consumed television shows and magazine clippings like a man dying of thirst would drink water. He remembers planting himself in front of the television and watching, glassy-eyed, the travel programs of lands far, far away, until his mother would get home and turn the TV off.

Upon graduation from high school he received a scholarship to study architecture at a university in London. He took it without hesitation.

Five years later he is a graduate student, and still he thirsts for more.

He waits.

—

When Alfred returns to his apartment one day a man is waiting at the door.

"…um, hi." Cautious. Confused. "Are you… uh… how may I help you?"

The man looks up at him, sharp, unreadable green eyes raking down Alfred's body from head to toe, and under that piercing stare Alfred suddenly feels strangely self-conscious. He fidgets, pulls his backpack over his shoulder and awaits this stranger's answer.

This stranger at his doorway is a man, probably not much older than Alfred himself, blond hair cut short and messy, eyebrows thick and bushy. And as for his clothes—well, Alfred is no connoisseur of high fashion, but even _he _can tell that this man's clothes don't come cheap. He's wearing a sharp suit that fits him too well to be anything but tailor-made, a perfectly straight tie, and a pair of spotless Oxfords on his feet. A rich man, then, Alfred concludes. A _very_ rich man, by the looks of it.

"I have a proposition for you," the man says, interrupting Alfred's thoughts, and his eyes go wide.

"Like a job offer?" Alfred asks, confused.

"Well… I suppose you could call it that." The stranger tilts his head to the side ever so slightly, but doesn't take his eyes off Alfred the whole time.

Alfred feels like those green eyes are burning a hole right straight through his skull.

"It's not a… conventional job, but if you're interested…" The man walks up to Alfred, presses a slip of paper into his palm. His skin is cool to the touch, and Alfred shivers. "…meet me at this address, on the date and time stated. If you don't turn up I'll just assume you won't be—"

"No!" Alfred blurts out, and when the word leaves his mouth the stranger shoots him a quizzical look. Alfred blushes, feeling his cheeks burn, and he tries to compose himself: "I mean—I'll be there." He nods forcefully, meeting that intense stare directly, and willing himself not to shrink under the man's gaze. "I'll take the job."

There is a beat of silence, and then the man nods and step backwards.

"In that case I'll see you soon, Mr. Jones."

When he leaves Alfred is still standing dumbfounded in front of his door. It is only later that it occurs to him that he never actually got that stranger's name.

—

The whole situation is incredibly fishy, but Alfred finds himself waiting at the coffee shop stipulated on the piece of paper anyway. Why he's there, in spite of his better judgment, is a question he's not sure he has the answer to.

When he enters the small shop the man is nowhere in sight, so he takes a seat first and orders a cup of coffee to sooth his frazzled nerves. He's not even sure why he's so nervous—he just is. It's just a job offer. An admittedly rather dodgy job offer, but still. What's the worst that could possibly happen? He could just _refuse_ after all.

But then Alfred starts to wonder how the man got a hold of him at all in the first place—he's not exactly the top of his class and thus unlikely to get a recommendation from his professor, and neither does he have much experience under his belt too. And yet the man knew his name—his _address_ too.

Alfred starts to let his mind wander as he thinks of horror movies and stories about serial killers and psychopaths, and he's in the process of convincing himself that he's going to end up decapitated and stuffed into a trash bag when suddenly there is a hand on his shoulder.

He jumps, coffee spilling out of the cup, and when he turns around, he's met with the same pair of green eyes again—only this time they are bright with amusement, and the man is smiling faintly as well. Alfred flushes, and tries to desperately fight down the blush that is rapidly rising to his cheeks as he wipes at the mess he made with some napkins. _Smooth going, Alfred. Exactly how you should be acting in front of a prospective employer._

He's staring resolutely at the table as the man drags a chair out to take a seat across him, and when Alfred finally looks up the man has his chin propped up on one hand, watching him with just the slightest hint of amusement. That look is gone in a split-second, though, and he resumes his usual unreadable expression once he notices that Alfred has finally looked up. He sits up straighter, hands clasped and resting on the table in front of him.

He clears his throat.

"So, Mr. Jones—"

"Alfred."

His eyebrows furrow. "Pardon?"

"You can just call me Alfred. No need to be formal with me."

The man blinks, quite apparently taken back, but his expression smoothens out again as he nods.

"Ah… alright. Alfred then." The way he says Alfred's name is strange, as if testing the shape of the word on his tongue. "Well, as I've mentioned, I have a rather unconventional job offer for you, but should you take it up, I can promise you the pay is beyond your expectations."

Alfred raises an eyebrow.

"If it's such a high-paying job why would you need _me_ to do it? Why not any of the other famous architects on the market? I mean, I'm just—"

"You were a recommendation," the man interrupts. Alfred blinks, staring back with wide eyes, waiting for the man to go on, but after a moment it becomes clear that that's all he's willing to say on the matter. Alfred leans back against his chair and folds his arms—the answer far from satisfies him, and now all he wants to know is _who_ in the world it could be who recommended him. Who on earth would have connections to both Alfred, country bumpkin from the middle of nowhere, and this strange man, disgustingly rich tycoon with the Armani suits to match?

If the confusion shows on Alfred's face the stranger pays no mind to it, instead continuing: "I suppose you'd want to know more about what the job entails then."

Alfred nods, and the stranger licks his lips.

"I can't tell you much about it but… well. Let's just say that it's not exactly _legal_, strictly speaking. Though it's not exactly _il_legal either."

The confirmation that this job is bad news, that Alfred's instinct was right, that he should get out of here _right now_ hits Alfred squarely in the gut, converges in the pit of the stomach and makes him feel sick. He looks at the man sitting in front of him with his expensive outfit and that air of secrecy and he wonders how many laws he had to break just to pay for those fancy shoes. A mixture of anger, disgust and disappointment thrums in his veins, makes his stomach churn, and all he can say is:

"No."

A pause.

Alfred grits his teeth. "If that's the case then I can't do it."

The stranger gives him another piercing look, and under that watchful gaze Alfred is struck by the feeling that this man _knows _something about him. His look says: _I knew you would say that. _It says: _But I'm going to convince you otherwise anyway. _It's the gaze of a man who knows he has the upper hand, and is just waiting for the right time to reveal his advantage to the opponent. It's careful, calm, collected, and Alfred knows with absolute certainty that he wants nothing to do with a man as calculating as the man sitting in front of him.

But then he leans forward, never taking his watchful gaze off Alfred, and he's whispering, as if telling a closely guarded secret:

"The one who recommended you was your cousin Matthew Williams."

Alfred stops breathing for a moment. His blood turns to ice, his heart stops in his chest. Then the moment passes and his heart twists painfully, and it feels as though he's just been hit by a truck. He feels dizzy, like he could pass out at any moment. His vision blurs, but still he sees the stranger watching him with those cold green eyes.

"How…" he rasps, his throat suddenly too dry. "How do you… know Mattie?"

"We work together," he says simply, and another punch is administered to Alfred's gut—_Mattie_ is involved with this shady guy. His cousin whom he grew up with, whom he spent weekends and every summer vacation with, to whom he told all his darkest secrets, the first person he ever came out to in middle school. Mattie, always so shy and so sweet and so very generous to everyone he knew.

"Mattie… works with _you_?" Disbelief colors his tone, and the incredulity in Alfred's voice makes the stranger chuckle; he's actually _laughing_, how dare he—

"That's right," he says, smirking triumphantly, and Alfred feels for the first time in a very long while a complete and utter sense of _hatred_. "So what I'm offering is, if you choose to work with me… I can help you reconnect with your long-lost cousin. I know you haven't spoken to him in a long time, have you?"

And then suddenly, abruptly, it clicks in the back of Alfred's mind that that one simple exchange has, somehow, ended up having himself completely sold. Because Alfred is never one to give up, one of those persistent types—when he wants to know something he will _find out_, no matter what it takes.

And now Alfred wants to know this stranger's name, wants to know what this stranger does, wants to know what this stranger's job offer is, and, most of all, wants to know how on earth a guy like him would end up involved with someone like Mattie.

More than that, he wants to see Mattie again, because Alfred hasn't heard from him in years. Mattie, his best friend since they were both children, whom he hasn't heard from ever since that day—

"I'll take the job," he finally mutters, resigned, and the stranger nods in approval.

"In that case," he says, extending a hand, "my name is Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland."

"Mr. Kirkland," Alfred tests out warily (perhaps with a bit more bite than strictly necessary), satisfied to finally be able to put a name to a face, and reaches over the table to give him a firm handshake (perhaps a bit more forceful than strictly necessary).

"Pleasure to be working with you," the man—Kirkland—says.

"It's a pleasure," Alfred returns.

It is a beginning.


	2. An Agreement

"How much do you know about the subject of dreams?"

Alfred frowns and shifts in his chair. He shrugs.

"Don't ask me. I'm just an architecture student."

Mr. Kirkland leans back against his chair, legs crossed and arms folded. At Alfred's noncommittal answer he raises one eyebrow, but doesn't rise to the bait.

"Dreams," he says instead, ignoring the way Alfred's looking down and fidgeting with his jacket, obviously not paying much attention, "are a projection of our subconscious mind."

They're back in a café, similar to the one that they first met in yet not quite the same at the same time. The layout of the shop is similar, though the chairs, the tables, the design of it all seem a little odd, or to Alfred, at least. It feels like an uncomfortable, forced combination, three very different things that were never meant to be placed together. Alfred's frown grows deeper, but he shakes his head, tries to clear his doubts from his mind to listen to what Kirkland has to say.

"In a dream, brain function accelerates, which allows us to create and perceive worlds simultaneously." Kirkland leans forward, producing a pen seemingly out of nowhere, and draws a diagram on a napkin of two arrows forming a cycle, one arrow leading to the second arrow, which in turn points right back. "And because dreams are, essentially, constructs of our own minds, what we create in our dream worlds tends to reflect our own mental or emotional states. Think about it—what was the last dream you had?"

Alfred's last dream was about getting mugged and killed in some desolate corner of the street. Considering his current predicament, it _is_ rather appropriate.

Kirkland smiles as he lets his point hit home, and Alfred has to resist the urge to return the smile (or more of a smirk, honestly—Kirkland's smiles never do reach his eyes) with a glare.

(In truth Alfred doesn't quite know where this animosity towards Kirkland even came from; he has never _despised _anyone with the intensity of hatred he feels for the man sitting in front of him now. Not even the bullies in middle school, or the professor who gave him a failing grade back in his first year of university just because he submitted his design one lousy minute late. Alfred has felt annoyance, but never _hate_.)

"Say, then, that if someone else—an intruder, of sorts—somehow manages to break into our minds to access our dreams," Kirkland continues, and as he speaks he draws a line in between the two arrows, splitting the circle into half, "then it would be easy to find out everything he needs to know about the dreamer's psyche. His thoughts, his feelings." A pause. "His secrets."

Alfred has the feeling that some sort of dramatic reveal is coming, and so he folds his arms as well and waits.

"What if I told you, then, that this is actually possible? Stealing information from dreams." Kirkland watches Alfred intently, waiting for his reaction.

Alfred tries not to betray any hint of surprise on his face, but he fails miserably. His eyes widen, and later he will realize that his mouth had been hanging open the whole time.

"I'd tell you you're nuts," he says finally, and Kirkland gives another one of this not-quite-smiles.

"It's true, though. In fact, people have been doing it for many years now; it started with the American military, and later people started using the same technology for some good old-fashioned corporate espionage—which, basically, is what I do for a living."

"You're crazy," Alfred says again faintly, shaking his head. _Why is it that every single time I'm with this guy he somehow finds another bombshell to drop over my head? _"You— This isn't— It's not— _P-prove it,"_ he finally manages to spit out, and upon those words Kirkland practically _beams_, his lips stretching out to form a wide grin, reminding Alfred very much of the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland—and Alfred himself is starting to feel more and more like poor little Alice as time goes by, lost and utterly confused.

"What if I told you that you're dreaming right now?"

Alfred just stares.

"Think about it—how did you get here?"

"What the hell are you talking about, I came here from—"

He pauses. Looks away. Swallows. Tries to think.

"I just…"

It strikes Alfred that he doesn't have an answer.

He looks back at Kirkland, and Kirkland, his green eyes bright and practically twinkling, still has that triumphant little smirk plastered across his face.

"…so I'm dreaming right now?" he says slowly, cautiously, head still spinning. "And you're invading my dream?"

"I prefer the term _dreamsharing_, but that is the gist of it, yes."

And the noncommittal way that Kirkland says it sets Alfred's blood on fire all over again, and abruptly, without thinking, Alfred's on his feet, yelling:

"What the fuck? First you just _waltz _into my life and basically just blackmail me into doing some sort of batshit crazy illegal job for you with my goddamn cousin, and then next you kidnap me to I-don't-even-know-where to _break into my goddamn mind_ so that you can—what was the phrase that you used again?—investigate my psyche, steal my secrets—"

"Alfred…"

"Goddamn, and now I can't even back down anymore, can I? You're crazy, you know that? I bet if I walked away right now you'd just find some way to hunt me down and kill me and make it look like a heart attack or an accident—"

"Alfred, calm down, you're rambling—"

"I'm not going to_ calm down_, not when some psychopath I don't want anywhere near me basically just broke into my subconscious for some kind of sick, twisted reason, I can never tell with you—"

"_Alfred_," Kirkland hisses, and there's something about the urgency in his voice and the look in his eyes that makes Alfred stop abruptly. He looks almost like he's begging Alfred for something, but that doesn't make any sense—

And then Alfred realizes suddenly just how deathly quiet the entire café has fallen.

He looks around.

Every single customer and staff member has turned to look at him.

A chill runs up his spine, and Alfred freezes in place.

"Kirkland, what's going—"

And before he can finish his sentence out of nowhere a woman leaps right at him, slams him onto the ground, one hand clutched around his throat, and soon the rest of the people in the shop have joined her, all staring at him with a strangely vacant look as they pin him to the ground.

Alfred is vaguely aware, through the crowd of people surrounding him, of Kirkland trying to fight his way through the people to get to him—he's yelling something that Alfred can't quite make out, thrashing, looking practically demented, but two men have him held tight around the arms, pulling him back and away from Alfred, but Kirkland continues to yell, looking frenzied, trying to break free to get to Alfred—

The hand around his throat tightens and pain sweeps through his body, and Alfred shuts his eyes, can't even muster enough strength in his body to scream—

Alfred's eyes snap open and he almost falls out of his chair—but it's not the chair from the café, it's a recliner, and the only reason why he doesn't fall off completely is because of some wires stuck to his wrist. He's breathing heavily, panting, feeling like his heart is about to burst out of his chest at any given moment. He shakes his head, runs a trembling hand through his sweat-matted hair, shuts his eyes tight, trying to dispel the memory of being pinned down and—

"Are you alright?" An unfamiliar voice brings him out of his reverie, and the voice is gentle, soothing. Alfred opens his eyes again, and sees a man removing the wires from his wrist with careful precision.

"I… I'm fine. I'm fine." Alfred shakes his head again, trying to get his breathing under control as he watches the man tend to the wires. He's blond as well, like Alfred and Kirkland both, except his hair is long and loose, long enough to be tied back into a short ponytail at the back of his head. He's wearing expensive-looking clothing too, but he has the sleeves of his magenta dress shirt rolled up to the elbows—obviously not a stick-in-a-mud with his clothes like how Kirkland is.

But still a shady guy who's involved with him nonetheless.

_Speaking of Kirkland—_

"Where is he?" Alfred blurts out. He looks to the side, and sees only an empty recliner.

"You mean Arthur?" The man gives Alfred a sympathetic look and lays a comforting hand on his shoulder, gently pressing him down to lie back against the seat. "He… ah, he woke up first. He's getting his bearings, alone. But do not worry about Arthur now. More importantly, how are you feeling?"

"I'm fine. _Really_," he adds in response to the incredulous look the man shoots him.

"Even though you just got torn apart by projections in a dream?"

"Projections…?"

"So I take it that Arthur didn't get that far." The man tuts. "He was supposed to give you a basic introduction to dreamshare, but I suppose it turned out a tad more basic than he had originally planned, owing to… circumstances," he finishes.

_By circumstances you mean me getting torn apart by random strangers or by me snapping and ending up yelling at Arthur?_ Alfred thinks, but doesn't say out loud.

"Well, no matter, we still have time to train you until the rest of the team members get here too," the man says cheerfully. He looks down at Alfred, smiling for a moment, but then his expression morphs into one of horrified shock as he slaps one hand against his forehead. "Oh, silly me! I forgot to introduce myself. Please," he says, extending one hand towards Alfred. "My name is Francis Bonnefoy, but please just call me Francis. In fact, you should address Arthur by his first name too, but that is irrelevant at the moment."

"Francis," Alfred repeats, still a little stunned from the events of a few minutes ago, and returns the handshake weakly. "And I'm—"

"Alfred Jones, I know," Francis chuckles. "Arthur has said a lot about you."

"Oh, really." The words must come out a lot more bitterly than Alfred intended it to because Francis gives him an odd look. "What does he say about me?"

"Alfred," Francis says, his voice suddenly different, no longer as lighthearted as before. There is a sense of urgency in his voice, almost panic as he continues, "Arthur isn't a bad person, no matter what he may come across as to you—"

"_Francis_."

A cold voice from behind him interrupts Francis mid-sentence, and both Francis and Alfred turn around to look at the source of the voice.

Unsurprisingly it is none other than Arthur, standing at the doorway and scowling.

"A word with you," he says sharply, and Francis sighs dramatically.

"Yes, yes, of course," he says in mock resignation, and as he stands up to go he shoots Alfred another pleading look. _I'll talk to you later, _it says.

_How about never_, Alfred thinks.

Then Francis looks away and he's crossing the room to where Arthur is waiting for him, and when the both of them are finally gone Alfred grabs his backpack and leaves the building.

—

Alfred lies on his bed in his apartment and thinks.

As much as he tries not to think of the dream, it still haunts him. He closes his eyes to try and get some sleep, and all he sees is that strange café, is every single pair of eyes in the room looking right at him, the thought of which still makes his blood turn cold. He remembers the panic in Kirkland's eyes, remembers the shock of being thrown to the ground and then—

The ringing of his phone startles Alfred out of his thoughts, and he very nearly falls off his bed at the sudden noise. It takes a moment for him to get himself together, and then he rolls to the side and retrieves his phone from the top of his drawer.

It's an unknown number. Alfred continues staring at the combination of numbers on the mobile display silently as the phone continues to ring.

Alfred makes no move to answer the phone, but the phone doesn't stop ringing.

Finally he picks up.

"Hello?" he mutters. Quiet. Cautious.

"Alfred!" A familiar voice rings out through the speaker. Alfred rolls back onto the bed and tries not to groan.

"Francis…"

"I hope you're feeling much better now," he sings, seemingly oblivious to the weariness in Alfred's tone. "Anyway, Alfred, I just called to ask when you'd like to come back for more dream training—"

"Francis," Alfred interrupts. "I'm not… I'm not coming back."

There is silence on the other end.

Then:

"Why not?"

Francis' voice, usually so light and cheery, is dull and disappointed. Alfred lets himself feel guilty for a moment, but then reminds himself that even if Francis seemed like a pretty decent guy, going back to him would also mean going back to Kirkland and going back to that disastrous incident, and Alfred is pretty sure that letting down one seemingly-okay-but-could-potentially-turn-out-to-b e-a-psychopath-too guy is a small price to pay to save his own neck.

"I just can't, Francis. I'm sorry."

"Alfred, is there anything I could do to convince you—"

"Goodbye, Francis," Alfred mumbles, and then puts down the phone, flings it to the far end of the bed near his feet.

The phone rings again but Alfred ignores it. He stares at the ceiling and tries to block out the ringing of his phone as best as he can. It doesn't quite work, but eventually it stops ringing, and Alfred closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

(That doesn't quite work, either.)

—

The next day Alfred turns up at his university and tries to fall back into the familiar rhythm of classes, projects, discussions, hanging out with his classmates and complaining about their professor in between deadlines.

Things mostly go back to normal. Alfred laughs and jokes with his friends as if nothing had happened, and in turn his friends don't seem to suspect anything either. If Alfred had told them that he had recently experienced death just a couple of days ago they would have probably laughed at him.

There is no way for them to tell that during classes Alfred's mind is far, far away. They can't possibly know that even when they're together, talking and laughing and sharing some drinks, there is a certain _something_ that keeps niggling away at the back of Alfred's head.

Alfred doesn't sleep right, doesn't eat right. During classes he finds himself zoning out far too often—he'll be listening to his professor's words one moment, and then the next he'll find himself slipping away, and a pair of cold green eyes will be invading his thoughts, filling his head with garbled white noise, the faded echoes of a memory he has tried his best to forget, but in doing so has only strengthened the intensity of the recollection in his mind.

He tells himself it takes time. He tells himself within a few days he'll be back to normal.

A few days turns into a week, which turns into two weeks.

It only gets stronger.

—

Alfred regrets his decision the moment the door opens.

He has been hoping desperately for Francis to be the one to answer the door, and whenever he's run simulations in his head it's always been Francis that welcomes him inside gladly, happy to see him again.

What he doesn't expect to see is Arthur Kirkland, standing with one hand on the doorknob, looking completely and utterly dazed.

There is a terse moment of silence as Kirkland stares at Alfred wordlessly, and all Alfred can do is to stare back.

The one to break the silence is Kirkland, who whispers hoarsely:

"How did you get past the security measures?"

Silence.

"Francis told me."

"Oh. I see."

More silence.

Alfred looks down at his shoes, shifting uncomfortably, trying desperately to think of a way to dispel the sheer _awkwardness_ of the whole situation.

He had expected himself to feel the familiar pulse of hatred the moment he saw Kirkland's face again, but now that he's here, he finds it notably absent. He almost misses it, briefly, because at least it would give him something to say. He could yell. He could taunt.

Instead he finds himself at a complete loss for words.

The moment stretches on. He doesn't dare to look up to try and catch a glimpse of Kirkland's expression. He's not sure if he even wants to.

_Say something_, _Alfred,_ he berates himself. _Something. Anything. You came here with a speech. Why don't you just say it then? Come on, Al, man up, you can do this, you can say it. It's so simple. It's just two words. It's just a simple—_

"I'm sorry."

Alfred doesn't even realize he's said the words out loud until he tilts his head up just the fraction of an inch to see Kirkland staring at him with what seems like a mixture of wonderment and incredulity.

(It's the most emotion he's seen on his face this entire time—apart from that one time in the dream, of course.)

"What?" Kirkland asks, still staring at Alfred intently, and Alfred feels his cheeks slowly but surely start to heat up, probably turning an embarrassing shade of red as well.

He clears his throat.

"Well, I mean… sorry for… yelling at you… back then." His cheeks are on fire by this point, and he looks back down at his shoes again, pointedly avoiding Kirkland's gaze. He swallows and goes on, "I mean… I've been thinking. About what I said. And I was wrong. It's not your fault that I got sucked into this mess. You're just the messenger. You said Mattie was the one who wanted me to be here… and if Mattie thinks I'm the guy you need, and that this is a place where I should be, then I trust him."

As he speaks he feels his confidence slowly start to return to him, and though his cheeks still feel as hot as before he manages to look up again, to return Kirkland's gaze with what he hopes is a look of steady conviction.

"And, uh… I guess I should say thanks, for trying to save me back then, when things got kinda crazy. It was my bad, it was probably me going all apeshit bananas that made those people—what was it that Francis called them again? Projections?—start to attack me and stuff. Like, uh… I don't really understand all that stuff yet, but I'd… I'd like to know. So." Alfred sucks in a breath and tries to give an apologetic smile. "So, uh. Yeah. Can I… can I come in?"

He stands there, smiling, and then the smile slowly slides right off his face as Kirkland continues to just stare at him silently.

The awkwardness from before returns, and Alfred is starting to contemplate just heading back home and pretending this never happened when suddenly, out of nowhere, Francis appears from behind Kirkland.

He clamps a hand on Kirkland's shoulder and the shorter man practically jumps out of his skin at the touch. He whirls around angrily and jabs a finger at Francis's chest, moving so fast that it appears to Alfred that this is far from the first time that this has happened—either that or Kirkland just happens to have really good reflexes. (It's a combination of both.)

"How many bloody times do you want me to tell you _not to sneak up on me like that_! For fuck's sake!"

"Calm down, I'm just testing out your reflexes. As evident, they are working perfectly fine, thankfully."

"The only thing that's being _tested_ here is my patience! Try that one more time and I swear to god I am throwing you out of—"

"Now, now, Arthur, not in front of the guest," Francis interjects, smirking triumphantly, looking over Kirkland's shoulder and right at Alfred with glittering eyes.

At his words Kirkland turns back around again, flushing slightly. "Apologies," he mutters, his voice suddenly a lot softer and a lot less angry than when he had been yelling at Francis not two seconds ago.

Thankfully Alfred is stopped from spitting out some generic response by Francis, who pushes Arthur to the side to give Alfred space to walk in.

"Come inside, come inside, don't let our little domestic bother you," he says, ignoring Kirkland's muted sputtering in the background ("_Domestic! _Honestly!"). He finds Alfred's eyes and grins easily, and Alfred finds himself smiling back as well, the tension of before having completely dissipated.

"I'm glad you're back," Francis tells him, and Alfred answers unthinkingly, in spite of himself:

"Me too."


	3. Learning the Ropes

Alfred finds himself in a dream once more, except this time he's fully aware of it.

He's in an office building now, sitting down on a bench next to Francis. All around him are men and women dressed in suits and ties, all headed to work, and Alfred is starting to feel out of place in his university hoodie and jeans—though, if the other people (what was it that Francis called them again? Projections?) notice they don't pay him any heed, instead walking past him as if he's not even there.

Which is a relief, considering what happened the last time Alfred was in a dream like this.

"So," Francis says next to him, and Alfred finally stops staring at his surroundings to look at Francis. The older man is sitting cross-legged, arms folded across his chest, a hint of mischievousness hidden in his smile.

"What do you think of this building?" Francis asks, and Alfred turns his head to observe his surroundings again before answering.

"It's okay," he says, shrugging. "Just like any old office building. Nothing special."

Francis's smile grows. "I designed this building, you know?"

"Oh." Alfred's eyes widen, and he can't help but blush as he hastily adds, "I mean—I didn't mean to—it's not _bad_ or anything, it's just not particularly different or anything, I mean, nothing wrong with a classic look—"

"Oh, calm down, I wasn't asking for a critique of my interior designing skills," Francis interrupts, eyes twinkling with amusement. "In fact, boring is good, because then the target won't feel like there's anything particularly out of the ordinary, which is sort of what we're going for, you see, when we carry out an operation."

"R…right…" Alfred chews on his bottom lip as he regards his surroundings once again. _This_ is what he came back to. This… this _criminal_ activity. It still makes him uncomfortable, and even now, sitting here, he still feels the weight of his actions in the pit of his stomach: guilt, gnawing away at his insides—and yet, even greater than that, a swooping exhilaration pumping in his bloodstream, a feeling that _yes, this is what I was meant to do_.

It feels strangely natural, being here. Even though he should be afraid, or unsettled.

Instead all he feels is a burning desire to learn more, to experiment further.

Francis's voice interrupts his train of thought.

"Well, I suppose I should start with the basics." He gets up and beckons for Alfred to follow him. Alfred blinks, startled by the sudden movement, but follows Francis out of the office and into the busy streets anyway.

"So… you're going to explain this whole dreamsharing thing?" he remarks as they walk past people. Alfred can't help but tense up as people brush past him, can't help but to keep looking around to see if anyone is staring at him. But, again, no one seems to be paying him any mind. Still—he's wary. Shoulders tense. Eyes shifting.

"I will try to explain as best as I can," Francis says, grinning. In comparison he's completely relaxed, looking as if he doesn't have a care in the world. As they turn a corner past a bookstore he even winks at a passing girl, who blushes and ducks into the building across the street in response.

As they continue walking aimlessly, Francis speaks.

"So… essentially, what we do is that usually we are hired by a corporation or some other powerful figure to extract information from a competitor, or a rival, or—well, you get the idea. What we do is that we find a time when our target—the mark—will be asleep, usually on a train, or on a flight, and then we proceed to share a dream with him."

Here Francis pauses and takes a deep breath. Alfred just stays silent, waiting for him to continue.

"So, before we do that, we have the planning process, which can take up to months, depending on the complexity of the project. The main figures we have are the extractor—the leader of the operation, essentially—Arthur, and the point man, who works with research, takes care of the little details, makes sure everything is right, things like that." Francis turns to Alfred and gives a roguish grin. "Played by none other than _moi_, of course.

"And the third most essential member of the team will be the architect. That's you," Francis adds sharply. "The architect is in charge of designing the dream space, and I will tell you why it is such an important job later_._"

Alfred wants to ask what happened to their previous architect, but he decides that some questions are better left unasked.

"Sometimes we have other figures to step in, but for a simple extraction job, a three person team should be sufficient. So, as I was saying, when the mark falls asleep we connect everyone together using a device—you remember the wires fixed to your arm?—which allows us to share a common dream space. We will enter one of our own people's dream, usually the architect, because he will have the layout of the dream in his mind, and am I confusing you? Do you need me to pause while you digest what I'm saying?"

In truth Alfred's head _is_ spinning with all these new terms. Even though he follows what Francis is saying, the full implications of his words still have yet to hit home. Nevertheless Alfred shakes his head. "Nah, it's okay. You can go on."

"Alright, if you insist. But do not hesitate to stop me at any point to clarify your doubts if it starts to get confusing." And without waiting for any indication that Alfred has heard him, he continues: "So, where was I—ah yes, entering the dream. Now, this is what you must pay close attention to. There are many different methods one can use to extract information from a target's mind, but the most common way would be to create some sort of secure environment—perhaps a safe, or a jail, or a locked room. The target's subconscious will automatically fill this secure environment with the information that he wishes to protect. Arthur has explained how one's subconscious affects the dream space, am I correct?"

Alfred nods.

"Right, so, the target fills his safe or jail or locked room with the secret information that we have been tasked to find by our client. What we do, then, is to—"

"Break into that safe?" Alfred interrupts, and Francis smiles.

"Exactly."

Alfred nods once more, wrapping his mind around this new information. It sounds simple enough—but he knows that nothing is that simple.

"So, then… how do you wake up from the dream?"

Francis gives him an odd look.

"There are two ways to wake up," he says. "The first way is to wait for the timer to run out. Once it does you will awaken naturally."

Here he pauses again, but even before he says the next sentence Alfred already knows what's coming.

"The second way, of course… is to die in a dream."

Alfred almost stops walking, then, feeling his blood turn to ice—but he inhales sharply and forces himself to catch up with Francis, who is still walking forward.

"So… any other questions, Alfred?"

This is a silly question, because Alfred is full of nothing _but_ questions, but as he opens his mouth to speak a realization suddenly sets in.

He looks to the left. It's the same bookstore as before. He looks to the right, and it's the same restaurant that the girl from before fled into.

"Wait, why are we back—"

And then all of a sudden everything around him is different.

He blinks quickly, sitting up abruptly, head spinning, but since when was he sitting down in the first place—

His eyes focus, and then he realizes—_oh._ He's back in the workshop.

_He just woke up._

Slowly he becomes aware of Francis undoing the wires on his wrist again, grinning up at Alfred, probably enjoying the look of confusion on his face.

"And _that_ is what happens when the timer runs out," he says simply, and then stands up again, holding the wires in one hand.

Alfred's head is still spinning, and when he tries to stand up he nearly falls over. Francis is there to steady him, though, and he offers the taller man a sheepish smile in gratitude.

"Well," Francis says smilingly, hands on his hips. "Why don't we take a short break, and then get right back to the dream? There is still so much for you to learn."

—

Over the next few days Alfred learns everything there is to know about extraction (or, at least, all he _thinks_ there is to know). Francis tells him about projections and why they turn violent, about why the architect's job is so important, shows him mazes and paradox spaces and other ways to make sure the projections don't find them and kill them before the job is complete, and tells him about all the ways a mission could go wrong (and there are so many ways it _could_ go wrong, it feels almost as if just one wrong step could sabotage the whole operation—and yet here they are, Kirkland and Francis, still alive and kicking and in the business. Alfred won't admit it, but his respect for the both of them grows with each new story that Francis tells him.)

Francis tells him many, many things, things that completely mystify Alfred at first—things like how time passes slower in a dream, like how you can have dreams _within_ a dream. He tells Alfred about how you can lose sight of reality, and urges him to make a totem of his own to help him keep track of what is real and what isn't. He shows Alfred his own totem, an old wooden bishop chess piece, and urges Alfred to make one of his own.

Alfred turns up the next day with a little model of the Empire State Building he'd made himself when he was a child, and Francis gives him a little nod of approval.

Alfred practices designing dreams too. He maps out designs in real life, shows them to Francis and nods seriously whenever Francis points out how they can be improved. He throws himself into it completely, his university course be damned, and day and night all he thinks about are new ways to improve his designs, how this trick and that paradox can be worked into the scenarios that Francis feeds him day in and day out.

He gets better at it. He gets _good_ at it. Francis is impressed, and Alfred lets himself feel a just a tinge of pride every time Francis praises another one of his designs.

"You're a natural at this, Alfred," Francis tells him one day in wonderment. "I've never seen anyone pick up on it so fast."

And it's then that Alfred recalls that feeling of familiarity the first time he was brought into a dream with Francis, and he starts to wonder that maybe, just maybe, he _was_ meant to do this. It's in his blood. He was _made _to create dreams.

The more time Alfred spends in the workshop, of course, the more time Alfred spends with Kirkland too.

It is, to put it mildly, extremely awkward.

Kirkland doesn't say much to him. It's not because he's not a talkative person, no; put him and Francis in the same room and they will be arguing so loudly you will probably be able to hear them all the way from New York.

It's more like there's nothing to say to each other.

Alfred thinks back to their first meeting and to that first disastrous dream together. He thinks back to the first time he saw Kirkland standing at his doorway, with those fancy shoes and that expensive suit, looking all suave and confident and like he held all the secrets of the world in his hand.

But now, in Kirkland's workshop, in this shared space together, he just seems like any other normal guy.

And Alfred doesn't feel that hatred for him anymore.

To be completely honest—he's curious. He wants to know more about Kirkland. He's tried striking up conversations, but Kirkland usually just gives monosyllabic answers without making eye contact, and eventually Alfred just completely gives up on asking questions about Kirkland's life.

Like that one time Kirkland was looking over some documents, and Alfred had sidled up to him and asked him casually, "So, how _did_ you get into this extraction thingy in the first place?"

"_Thingy_," Kirkland mumbled under his breath, before clearing his throat and speaking up. "It's a long story," he'd said simply, and that was that.

But yet something, some inexplicable thing, still keeps pulling Alfred back after each rebuffed attempt at striking up a conversation. It's the way his demeanor changes completely when he's interacting with Francis; it's the way he is so much _different_ now, as compared to when he first presented himself to Alfred; it's the way Alfred sometimes catches Arthur watching him while he's in the middle of talking to Francis, or working on another model, or even just sitting on a recliner tapping away at his phone mindlessly.

It's strange, to say the least—but in spite of that, he still wants to get to know Kirkland. Even if the feeling doesn't seem to be mutual.

—

Days pass. Alfred keeps on designing and building and learning. About a week after their first dream session together Francis tells Alfred a little bit more about the opposite of extraction—inception.

"So inception is when you plant an ideainto someone, instead of _taking_ that information away from them," Alfred paraphrases, and Francis nods in confirmation.

"That's right. And that is exactly what we will be accomplishing."

Alfred frowns. "Won't the procedure be different then? It won't be the same old breaking-into-a-safe trick again, will it?"

"No," Francis answers. "Of course not."

This time they're on a beach. There are minimal projections here—Alfred designed it to be so—so it's pleasantly quiet as they sit in the sand and talk. They're not here to build, this time. This time Francis just wanted a place to talk. Why they couldn't just have this conversation in their warehouse instead, though, is beyond Alfred's comprehension.

"Inception is a more… delicate task," Francis explains, licking his lips. He's not facing Alfred, instead looking out into the distance at the horizon. He inhales. "It was believed to be impossible not too long ago, in fact."

"But why is it so difficult?" Alfred asks, genuinely interested—he's stopped being baffled by new information a long time ago now. He just takes everything as it comes.

"Well—alright. Let's say I tell you, don't think of a pink elephant. What are you thinking of?"

"A pink elephant," Alfred replies easily.

"Exactly," Francis says, turning to look at Alfred with narrowed eyes. "It is so difficult because genuine inspiration is impossible to fake. The subject can almost always trace the origin of the idea back to its source, and realize that the idea was a phony one. When you think of a pink elephant, you know it is because I told you not to think of one. How do you make someone believe that this idea that we want them to believe, then, sprung from their own mind, all on its own?"

Alfred nods slowly, considering Francis's words.

"So… then, how did the first people who did it get around this problem?"

"There are two key things one must take note of, in order to ensure that inception is successful. First," Francis sticks out a finger, pointing upwards as he speaks, "you have to go _deep_ enough. Multiple layers. So, say, a dream within a dream _within_ a dream. Having this many layers, too, was once thought impossible, but we've since found a way around it."

Francis raises another finger.

"Second, you must break down the idea into its most basest of origins. You have to come at it from an emotional aspect. For example—say a client wants the successor of a corporation to dissolve the company when he takes over it after his father dies. We go down to its roots: the relationship between the successor and the current head—his father."

Francis hesitates, then, and he purses his lips into a thin line briefly before he continues.

"Essentially we come up with an actual _dream _for the subject. A story, in a way. Make him experience a dream that will _convince_ him of the idea, make him come to the desired conclusion all on his own."

"So…" Alfred looks down at his feet, draws little circles in the sand with his index finger. "…basically, you're fabricating a really elaborate lie for the poor dude?"

"Well…" Francis shrugs, turning away once more. "That is one way of looking at it."

They fall silent, and for a long moment the only sound they can hear is the distant buzz of a crowd, the projections, and the gentle lapping of waves at the shore.

"Francis?" Alfred is the one to break the silence. He's still looking down at the sand, but he's aware that Francis has turned back to look at him again. He bites down on his bottom lip, hesitating for a moment, but eventually he steels himself and presses on: "Can I ask you something?"

"Since when do you ask me for permission before you ask a question?" Francis responds, and Alfred can hear the amusement in his voice. It makes him smile, just a little bit, before he speaks up again.

"Well… it's about Kirkland, you see—"

"My boy," Francis interrupts. "_Please_, I beg of you, simply call him Arthur."

"Alright, fine. It's about _Arthur._"

"Well, in that case, ask away." When Alfred lifts his head to finally look at Francis again, he's surprised to see that Francis is grinning.

"Well, I just… I guess he doesn't like me much, 'cause he never talks to me even though I keep trying to strike up a conversation—"

"Oh, no, no, you couldn't be more wrong," Francis interrupts, his grin growing even wider at that. "He is rather fond of you, in fact."

"Huh. Doesn't feel that way to me," Alfred says, shrugging. Francis is probably just teasing him, and he doesn't pay any mind to this new revelation. "But… but that's not what I wanted to ask. I just… I want to know more about him, is all. I mean you've told me lots about yourself, but I don't know anything about Kirk—about Arthur at all, apart from his full name." He sees the look that Francis gives him, and he quickly adds, "I'm just curious, that's all. He just seemed like a pretty strange guy to me, so I wondered—"

"Alright, alright, you don't have to justify yourself," Francis says offhandedly, waving his hand. "I understand."

He falls silent again, and Alfred watches him, waiting for him to speak. He can tell that Francis is thinking, so he tries to be patient as he waits.

Finally Francis clears his throat, and it's with a certain strangeness in his voice that Alfred can't quite place that he speaks.

"I know he and I are at each other's throats all the time, but I do not hate him. In fact, I have known him almost all my life." _That_ piques Alfred's interest, and Francis chuckles at the incredulity that's plainly written all over Alfred's face. "Yes, it's true. We both started learning about the art of extraction from a young age, back when it had just started taking flight as a corporate weapon."

Nostalgia passes over Francis's features as he smiles, a little sadly. "We both grew up in the field, you see. It is a long story."

"That's what he told me, too," Alfred blurts out before he can stop himself, and that earns another laugh from Francis.

"It _is_ a long story."

Francis looks down at his watch, which prompts Alfred to check the time on his phone too.

"It's about time," Francis says, echoing Alfred's own thoughts. "Well… I cannot tell you much about Arthur, for fear that he really _will_ finally execute one of his many death threats when he finds out what I have done." Francis is smiling when he says that, but as his words trail off his eyes abruptly turn serious. His gaze on Alfred is intense, filled with a certain urgency that makes Alfred uncomfortable all of a sudden.

"He may seem a bit aloof, but when you get to know him, really, he is not all that bad." He pauses, looks down at his watch once more, then turns back to look at Alfred again.

"We all have our own crosses to bear," he says, simply, before the world goes black.

—

When Alfred wakes up he peels off the wires himself—he's long stopped needing Francis to do it for him—and when he's done, he gets up only to be faced with the sight of Kirkland, standing at the doorway with something akin to that little smirk that had driven Alfred up the wall back when they first met.

"The rest of the team is here," he says quietly, and the implication of his words hits Alfred squarely in the gut.

_Mattie_, he thinks, just as the door clicks open.

—

A/N: Sorry if this chapter was a little dry! Yeah, information overload, I know, but hopefully things will start picking up from here on.

A further explanation of some of the stuff about extraction that was mentioned briefly, for the benefit of those who have yet to watch Inception/have forgotten all about Inception:

- Projections are the manifestation of a person's subconscious. An architect builds the dream space, the team brings the target into the dream, and the target then fills the dream space with his subconscious, which appears in the form of people.

- They turn violent because the target's mind can sense that there's an intruder, and the longer you spend in the dream, or the more changes you make to the dream environment, the more violent the projections get. Think of it like white blood cells trying to fight off an infection.

- An architect's job is so important because they need to construct the dream environment such that it becomes one huge maze, which makes it harder for the projections to find them and, you know, kill them.

- Regarding paradoxical architecture: search 'Inception Penrose Steps' on YouTube to see what I'm talking about.

- Time passes slower because in a dream, brain function accelerates. Depending on how sedated you are, 1 hour in reality can be as long as 20 hours in the dream world. This multiplies even further the more layers down you go.

- And by layers, I mean dreams within dreams… so you go to sleep in a dream. And when you wake up from that second layer you might _think_ you're back in reality now, when the truth is you're actually still dreaming.

- Which is why it's entirely possible to lose sight of reality in a dream, especially when you go too many layers down. This is what you need a totem for. It's an object that only the owner will only know the shape and feel of exactly; the object will act differently in a dream as compared to reality, which will allow you to tell whether you're dreaming or awake. For example, in the movie itself, one of the totems was a little spinning top. In reality it would topple over after a while, but in a dream it would just keep spinning on and on.


End file.
